


The Quiet In Between

by Ysmiyr



Series: Short and Bittersweet [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, No Dialogue, lots of feels, non linear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-13 00:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18021287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysmiyr/pseuds/Ysmiyr
Summary: It felt like a very important task, maybe the most important one John ever had, making sure Sherlock knew he was cherished, not for his intellect, and not for his looks, but for his heart, too.





	The Quiet In Between

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> So, after a hiatus of God knows how long, i decided to come back to writing and tidy up my fanfiction accounts and works. I'm reposting this one because it was under a pseud i can't remember why I tought i needed, and I also saw some things I wanted to change. Also, enligsh is not my mother language, so if i let pass any mistakes, please let me know!  
> Hope you guys like it <3

It was a thing of wonders, how quick they got comfortable with each other.

Everyone around him warned about Sherlock. How he was a dangerous person, not to be trusted. They talked about him as if he was the devil himself, like he was a contagious illness; people were afraid of him, hated him.

But the detective didn't seem to mind all that. He looked like he enjoyed these insults and jabs as the highest compliment one could give him. He strode about in crimes scenes like he was a king, chin held up high, his voice a bored drawl.

But really, you would have to be especially stupid to not notice how lonely the man truly was. When John saw the skull on the mantelpiece, the comment it sparked didn't came from a feeling of disgust or uneasiness. It came from the realization that this mad, brilliant, completely amazing person was all by himself all the time, carrying the weight of being an adult on his thin shoulders without anyone there to try and ease the burden.

And then Mycroft came along, and John had the nagging and heart wrenching feeling that Sherlock's childhood couldn't have been that much different. He took a moment to imagine how life must have been for him; the little child no one had time for, that asked too many questions, that made too much of a mess all the time.

John knew that his flatmate wasn't an easy person, far from it, but in the quiet moments between one case and the next, before the boredom kicked in, before the fingers on the top shelf in the fridge hold more appeal than the telly he never actually watched, Sherlock could be different. He could sit in the sofa next to John with a book open on his lap or a stash of newspapers he only ever looked for the crosswords trown across the floor, or would just tweak with pieces on his phone laying on the ground like a ten year old, talking about anything and everything that crossed his mind and even asking for John's input in the most ridiculous of scenarios.

It was then John realized, Sherlock never forgot something he said when it counted. Every little bit of information about his past, about his time in Afghanistan, about to how he took his coffee or how he liked to unwind after a hard day; everything he ever said, Sherlock committed to memory with the same care he had to the most interesting cases.

After that, John felt compelled to writing a journal on the detective. Not the blog, that everyone could read. It was a paper journal he kept at the back of his wardrobe and wrote a new line everyday, and read it every morning. He felt a child-like anxiousness thinking about it but it seemed like a very important task; to ensure he could surprise Sherlock sometimes and receive that slightly shy, a bit awkward smile typical of people that never had someone to remember the little things about them, the ones that never got random little trinkets or treats for no specific reason other than to signify "I thought about you when I was away.".

So John, who didn't had someone to do that for him anymore either, thought that maybe Sherlock didn't seem to miss it because no one ever did for him. It became a game with himself then; he thought about the lanky twit all day and night, couldn't forget him if he tried, so finding small little presents was easy and recieved with more care and enthusiasm than John thought possible even knowing Sherlock was much more emotional than he liked to think. 

Sometimes John felt as though Sherlock didn't even took note of it anymore.

But other times, he would look at those ever changing eyes and they would be warm with gratefulness, with acknowledgment, with a naked affection and hope that made John feel like the most lucky and loved man on earth. Sometimes he would wake from one of his nightmares to the sounds of his favorite violin piece, to clattering sound of life in the kitchen, to a mug of hot coffee on his nightstand. Other times, Sherlock would sit side by side with him, looking at the fire and hands barely touching between their chairs, humming a song with closed eyes. 

Their brand of comunication never worded; It was a look, sometimes a touch. But they never needed to talk about it; and those moments where his toughts and feelings were plain across his face and reflected from the other side of the roaring fire, were the happiest John could ever remember being.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on Tumblr! [ X ](http://therudeidiotof221b.tumblr.com/)


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